


Sugar and Spice

by bluerighthand



Series: Alfie/Tommy AUs [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: (emphasis on the attempt), Anniversary, Attempt at Humor, Comfort, Cooking, Fluff, M/M, Soft gangster boyfriends, Why is making Tommy awful in the kitchen as fun as it is, and a big dog, and a tiny horse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 02:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluerighthand/pseuds/bluerighthand
Summary: It’s Tommy and Alfie’s fifth anniversary.With Alfie away at work for the day, Tommy plans the perfect romantic meal. Unfortunately, between misbehaving ovens, disobedient vegetables and the occasional sabotage of his dog, things don’t quite go to plan. Luckily, Alfie loves him anyway.





	Sugar and Spice

**Author's Note:**

> Hitting you with some domestic Alfie/Tommy fluff and awful cooking :) 
> 
> Big thank you to @whentommymetalfie for being my Horse Friend and helping me crawl outta my writing slump with fab ideas and pony pictures <3

“Tommy” Alfie whispered, tracing the shell of his ear. Though it pained him to do so, Tommy kept his eyes closed, shuffling a little further into the warmth of the duvet. He knew if he woke properly, Alfie would never leave. Not today. Alfie had made a fuss the night before, insisted he wasn’t going into the office, but Tommy had managed to talk him round.

It was cruel to make a man work on his anniversary; even crueller for Tommy to be the one who orchestrated the mild chaos in the office to get him away, but he had grand plans for the day. He needed an empty house, Alfie’s flowery apron and a lot of courage.

The mattress dipped as Cyril hopped on, Alfie trying to contain his laughter as he licked at his face. Tommy’s smile was obscured by the duvet. Alfie slipped away soon after that, with a beardy kiss to Tommy’s temple and a gentle ruffle through his hair. Tommy had half drifted away again, but was roused by the tell-tale crunching of gravel as Alfie’s car pulled away from the cottage. Tommy yawned, peeking an eye open to find Cyril’s face an inch from his own.

Once he’d recovered from his undignified shriek, he sat up, stretching, Alfie’s night shirt falling around his elbows. There was a note on the bedside table, and he grabbed it before Cyril could, grinning at the badly drawn love heart and Alfie’s familiar scrawl.

_Happy anniversary sweetheart._

Five years. Tommy could hardly believe it. Would never have dared to, during those months of lingering touches, shy smiles and midnight conversations. But they were here now, away from it all in their own little cottage in the country. Tommy had his stables, Alfie had a vegetable garden, and Cyril had acres of fields to tumble around in.

They’d made it this far.

Cyril was padding around by the door, and Tommy let him out, grabbing some casual clothes from the chest of drawers. He planned to change into his suit later, not sure quite how messy his present would turn out to be. He’d done some cooking before, sure, like when Finn wanted eggs, or the pies he made as a child.

Technically those were _mud_ pies, and had no business in the kitchen, but aside from the fact that Finn’s dinner had more shell than egg in and Aunt Pol had banned him completely after the fire incident, he felt he had a good base to get started on. He lived with Alfie now, and if there was one thing Alfie was good at (although Tommy was proud to say there were many, _many_ things Alfie was an expert on), it was cooking. Which was where Tommy had got the idea from.

Five years was a long time after all, in this life, and he wanted to do something special for Alfie. Meaningful. He had a whole shelf filled with recipe books, and Tommy had been sneaking down to peer at them when Alfie was asleep, gradually forming his menu for a romantic anniversary dinner. Alfie would never suspect a thing; it was the perfect surprise.

Choosing what to make had surely been the trickiest part. Tommy didn’t want to be _too_ ambitious, but at the same time, he had a whole day! If something went wrong, he could always just start again, he had more than enough ingredients. He’d have liked to have done a practice run, just to make sure everything was alright, but had decided not to risk it. He wanted it to be a complete surprise, and he was pretty sure Alfie would notice if all his vegetables disappeared and his chicken mysteriously vanished from the freezer. Although Tommy could probably get away with it by blaming Cyril, he decided he didn’t deserve that.

Even if he did chew on Tommy’s shoes.   

Arriving in the kitchen, Tommy pulled out some recipe books, as well as his handwritten notes about kosher food, and what he was going to make. They’d be having chicken, with a vegetable sauce, Alfie’s home-grown potatoes and a chocolate cake for pudding. Simple, but tasty, and healthy too; Alfie was always going on about the benefits of a rounded diet. Tommy usually sent a puff of smoke and a glare in his direction to make his view known, but he _did_ listen sometimes. And sure, the healthy bit would be slightly counteracted by the chocolate cake, but it was their anniversary after all.

He had breakfast: a cigarette and an unbuttered slice of toast, before washing his hands and tying himself into Alfie’s apron. It was a little long on him, and if his brothers saw him in the pink flowery thing (that Alfie still insisted he bought ironically, though Tommy didn’t believe him) he’d probably die, but if he was going to do battle with the kitchen today he needed a uniform.  

He thought he’d start with the veggies: he needed to work up to the chicken, and this was just chopping and stirring right? He could do that. There were: carrots, onions, broccoli, celery, pepper, some herby…leaf things he didn’t know the name of but seemed important, and a strangely shaped purple vegetable that Alfie had previously informed him was an aubergine. After consulting the recipe, it was banished back to the cupboard. Tommy couldn’t deal with anything purple today.

The sauce recipe was already worrying him; it didn’t mention anything about water. And after the spaghetti fire incident of 1923, Tommy was loathe to miss out water from any cooking. He filled up a bowl anyway, placed it on the side, grabbing a knife to start chopping. What was first?

“1 ½ cupfuls diced outer stalks of celery” he read out loud to himself. Now that he actually had to do it, the idea of separating the inside from the outside seemed ridiculous. What was so wrong with the inner stalks? Surely he could just chuck a load in, and then- no, no, this was Alfie’s special meal. He had to do it perfectly.

Soon Tommy’s bowl was filling up nicely with veggies. The slices weren’t exactly even, which was frustrating him slightly, but he supposed once they became a sauce it didn’t matter so much. He liked to watch Alfie in the kitchen. He could chop an onion so fast, his hand was practically a blur. How did he do it? Tommy positioned his hands in a vague imitation of his boyfriend’s, and started on the onion. It wasn’t all so different from a razor, Tommy contemplated. And he’d been pretty damn good with a razor blade. He sped up, gaining confidence as he diced the onion in the opposite direction. Sure, he wasn’t as fast as Alfie, but he was really getting the hang of this-

“Shit” he cursed, dropping the knife and clutching his thumb, beads of blood welling up where he’d nicked himself. The bowl wobbled where it had been jolted by the sudden movement, teetering before spilling its contents over the counter.

“For God’s sake” Tommy muttered, sucking his thumb into his mouth as he tried to scoop the vegetables back into the bowl one-handed. The water sloshed over the sides of the counters, leaving Tommy with wet trousers and soaking the pages of the cookbook he’d been peering at. Cyril padded unheard into the kitchen at the disturbance, looking up at Tommy curiously as he flapped around, dragging a tea towel over the counter and attempting to rescue the sodden pages.

Cyril stopped just behind him to lap up the water, snuffling at the vegetables that dropped to the floor when Tommy tripped over him, inconveniently covering all the water with his body. Tommy closed his eyes, barely suppressing a frustrated scream as the cold water seeped through to his skin. Cyril licked at his fingers.

 

Ten minutes later, Tommy was changed, clutching a packet of cigarettes and determined to uphold the ‘no dogs in the kitchen’ rule. Cyril wasn’t happy about this, and pawed at the door, barking until Tommy eventually gave in and opened it. He dragged his favourite cushion in from the living room, flopping down onto it and watching Tommy with interest any time he caught a whiff of something.

Right, where was he: butter, oil, frying pan. Maybe he didn’t need the water after all. He should have it there though…just in case. He’d been sneaking glances at Alfie turning on the heat over the past few weeks, so he switched it on confidently, quite forgetting that there were different temperature settings in all the excitement.

_Let the vegetables cook gently in their own juices, until they are tender._

Tommy wrinkled his nose, leaving the pan to its own devices while he retrieved the chicken from the freezer. His stomach sunk as he set the meat on the table. He hadn’t realised _quite_ how frozen it would be. He blew hot air onto his fingers to warm them up again, poking at the dials on the oven. It should thaw out in there: there was plenty of time, he calmed himself, placing the chicken into the oven as the vegetables sizzled. Back to the sauce.

_Fill one tablespoon with a combination of: crushed garlic clove, salt, pepper, and fine breadcrumbs, and add to sauce._

Which one was a tablespoon again? He couldn’t remember. Sounded like it should be large; as close to the size of a table as possible. None of the silver ones were really cutting it, maybe they didn’t have a tablespoon. His eyes fell upon the big ladle. A few scoops of that ought to be enough!

 _Look at me go_ , Tommy thought, filling up the ladle full of crushed garlic before tipping it into the sauce. His clothes were drying, he was problem solving, his dog was behaving and he was making a healthy home cooked meal for his boyfriend. Tommy hummed as he worked, some song Alfie had taken to singing in the kitchen. He liked to distract him sometimes. The feeling of Alfie’s arms around his waist, sneaking neck kisses and swaying him as he sang and a hot pan bubbled away in the background was heavenly.

Tommy couldn’t wait for Alfie to come home.

\--

Two hours later, Tommy was less keen for his boyfriend’s return. Steam had curled his hair into an absolute state, and he brushed it out of his eyes as he surveyed the damage. Flour was covering the work tops, broken egg shells littering the floor and crunching underfoot. Tommy had managed to confuse sugar and salt, _and_ baking soda and baking powder, meaning one half the kitchen was a ‘discarded chocolate cake’ zone, and the other was a mess of utensils and bowls filled with God knows what. He was running out of chocolate.

Worst of all was the chicken. He’d left it in the oven for hours, and it hadn’t so much melted the frosty covering of ice over its surface. He only realised that he’d actually turned up the hob instead of the stove when his first attempt at sauce had been burnt to a crisp all over the frying pan. He was now on the third batch (what happened to the second sauce is unspeakable), which had to be his last. Tablespoons, or more accurately: ladles, used up quite a lot of ingredients.

_The sauce should be moderately thick, but not lumpy._

Tommy peered into the pan, frowning. This sauce looked more like green water, with great half melted lumps of veggies in. Maybe he just didn’t chop them small enough? He poked at the lumps with his knife, attempting to cut them down. His thumb gave a painful twinge, and he pushed that idea aside. It would be okay: he could fix it later, put it all in a bowl and do some stirring. Stirring solved everything. And though he wanted _everything_ to be perfect, he knew the chicken was far more important. The oven was on properly now, and the damned thing had finally started to defrost. Tommy cast anxious glances at the clock, as Cyril watched the chicken through the glass, whining occasionally as the potatoes made alarming noises from their pan.

“You’ve got food _there_ , and water. Don’t act like I don’t feed you” Tommy huffed. Cyril wagged his tail. Tommy sighed in resignation. “I’ve got to cook it first. Then you can have a bit”.

\--

He had thirty minutes left, before Alfie was expected to arrive home. Ollie had called him from the office earlier, said he was just leaving.

“Stall him” Tommy had hissed down the receiver. He heard Ollie calling after Alfie, something about a lost dog near the canals, but the dreaded smell of burning had gotten Tommy off the phone before he could hear a response. The blackened chicken sat on the work surface accusingly. Tommy had cut into it, with rather more force than necessary, and was dismayed to find it uncooked on the inside.

How could it be burnt and raw at the same time? Had he just invented something? Surely things were either cooked, or they weren’t, but this chicken seemed to be both.

It was all very well creating new dishes the world had never seen before, but he’d rather this discovery hadn’t occurred on his _bloody anniversary._ Another glance at the clock sent him into a panic, chiselling away at the burnt parts of the chicken so he could whack the rest back into the oven at a high heat.

The kitchen was also a disaster: pots and pans everywhere, food all over the floor, his damp clothes hanging over the backs of the chairs. Feed Alfie awful food, and ruin his kitchen supplies, that’s how Tommy did anniversaries. With no time to clean properly, he started hiding the dirty equipment. Shoving bowls into cupboards, utensils behind stacks of books. Alfie would find a wooden spoon in his gardening boots a week later. He unfolded the new tablecloth he’d bought: white, with little flowers on (Alfie liked that sort of thing), throwing it over the mess of flour and God knows what else. Cutlery was scattered about hastily, placemats frizbied into position.

Everything was going so _wrong_ but he wanted to make it pretty and perfect and there _wasn’t enough time_ -

Breathe Tommy.

Ten minutes. He sipped a bit of the sauce into his mouth, and gagged slightly, dropping the spoon. What on earth…that didn’t taste like vegetables. It tasted like shit. How could he have messed up this badly?

The only way he could have done worse was if he’d just grabbed a whole pig and plopped it down on the table. At least this was kosher, or he bloody hoped it was anyway: his notes were completely ruined by the water. There were a lot of rules, and although he now knew all about the menorah and the Torah and the…horah, the kitchen was Alfie’s territory. Though on second thought, Alfie might be grateful for an excuse not to eat the damn thing.

Tommy fetched the chicken. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. And that…wasn’t enough. This was supposed to be Alfie’s special meal, and what was he getting? Some badly cooked chicken, sloppy sauce and a pathetic excuse for a chocolate cake. Oh shit – the icing. All but throwing the chicken on the table, Tommy grabbed the tube, messily squeezing until the white icing appeared.

HAPPY ANNIV

And…he’d run out of room. Why didn’t he make a bigger cake for fucks sake- if he just added the other letters underneath it might look alright? No, it would look awful. He could blend it in? Start again? He rubbed at one of the clumsy letters with his spoon. It looked terrible. And Tommy didn’t have to be an expert to see that. God, what would Alfie think?

“Happy anniv to me” Tommy muttered darkly, shoving the cake back to the other side of the counter. Staring around at the kitchen, he could have cried. How could everything have gone so wrong? He plated up the main course, covering it with a cloche as soon as possible, if only to hide it from view. The potatoes were burnt and pathetic, the chicken looked disgusting and the sauce topped the whole thing off with a horrible greenish palette.

If he just…closed the curtains, lit a scented candle and scattered a few petals about the place like one of those sappy romantic dinners in the books Alfie was always going on about, would he even notice? Yes, was the answer to that. Yes he would.

It was a few minutes past Tommy’s estimated time, and he was tense, pacing, and unwilling to try and tidy up further or start anything new in case Alfie came home right at that moment. He busied himself with by violently ripping the petals off a rose he’d cut from the bush in the garden, placing them over the stains on the tablecloth.

He was crossing the room to put the stalk in the bin when he caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror, stopping dead. _He hadn’t changed_. His hair looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, stains and splashes of food covered his shirt and Alfie’s apron, and chocolate had ended up all over his face.

Crunching gravel sounded from the driveway, and Cyril hopped up instantly, running to the window and barking excitedly. No. Alfie couldn’t see him like this. Tommy had plans. A suit, something nice underneath-

The car door slammed, and Tommy heard footsteps coming up the path. He did the only thing he could think of. Pulling the kitchen door closed, he darted up the stairs, shrugging off the apron and dirty clothes as he went. Tearing into his wardrobe he grabbed his suit just as Alfie’s key sounded in the lock. Frantically scrabbling with his buttons, he assessed the situation of his hair in the mirror.

“Tommy?” Alfie called. “I’m home”. _Shit shit shit._ There was nothing to be done. It was just a fluffy mess that wouldn’t be flattened. Trousers on, socks on, buttons up, jacket on, hair vaguely patted down- no, his collar was all bunched up, and this wasn’t the right jacket-

 “Tommy, love?”. Tommy rested his forehead against the mirror, and breathed.

“You upstairs?”. A creak on the bottom step.

“I’m coming” Tommy called, voice cracking slightly. He stared at his reflection for a moment longer, and had that awful urge to just sink down to the floor and pull at his hair. But he opened the door instead, kicking aside his dirty clothes and hanging Alfie’s apron carefully on the back of the door.

He could hear the scrabble of Cyril’s paws on the floor, and smiled despite himself at the “oof” Alfie made when he presumably jumped up on him. It would be okay. He could make it up to Alfie. Hide all the mess and take him out to eat, buy him something nice tomorrow, light a few candles in the bedroom.  

Alfie was in the living room, coat discarded on the sofa as he bent down to pet Cyril. He looked up at Tommy’s approach, Cyril not assisting in his attempts to stand.

“There ‘e is. Happy anniversary treacle” said Alfie, holding his arms out for Tommy. He was smiling, but it looked a little off. Tommy could tell he wasn’t quite himself, and he was tense enough to know if anyone had upset Alfie that day they wouldn’t be getting away with it.

“Happy anniversary”. He leant up for a kiss. “How was your day?”. Alfie grimaced, and Tommy’s stomach twisted, fingers faltering as they stroked through Alfie’s hair.

“Not great, actually. I didn’t wanna leave you in the first place yeah, and then there was this lost puppy down by the canals, n’ I didn’t wanna be late but I jus’ thought about him all alone in the cold, so I had to have a look for him”.

Oh no. _Oh no_. Not only had Tommy fucked up Alfie’s anniversary meal, he’d also messed up his entire day.

“But I couldn’t find ‘im nowhere. Not a sign of the poor guy” he said sadly, scratching Cyril behind the ears. “Keep thinkin’ about him falling in, no one t’ help him”. _What kind of boyfriend was he?_

“Alfie” he started, reaching up for a hug. Alfie wrapped his arms securely round Tommy’s waist, nosing into his neck as he sighed.

“Sorry love, I didn’t wanna ruin-”

“Shh” said Tommy quickly. _I’m the one that’s ruined everything._ Cyril sat beside them, his excited panting from Alfie’s return calming them both somewhat, until they pulled back. “Alfie, I need to tell you- there was no dog”.

“What?” he asked, confused. “But Ollie said there’d been sightings, n’ I figured-”. Tommy thought to himself as Alfie continued to ramble. Damn Ollie, he could’ve used _any_ excuse. This whole day had been a disaster, from start to finish. They should’ve just stayed in bed. How could he fix this? _Could_ this even be fixed?

“They found the dog” Tommy blurted. Alfie stopped.

“They did?” he asked, face hopeful.

“Yeah. Um, Ollie, he rang just before you got here”. Alfie broke into a wide smile, lifting Tommy off his feet. Tommy swallowed his usual protests, leaning into the kiss as Alfie spun him round gently, some of the nerves leaving his stomach. Alfie loved him, he wouldn’t care that he was hopeless, right? He was carefully returned to the ground, but not for long, Alfie leading him to the sofa and pulling him down onto his lap. Tommy looped an arm around his shoulders, enjoying the closeness, and security of Alfie’s arm under his knees. Shame he’d ruined their anniversary.

“What’ve you got ‘ere?” said Alfie, turning Tommy’s face to the side and rubbing at something on his cheek. He frowned, before licking his finger as Tommy batted him off.

To his surprise, instead of questioning _why_ Tommy had flecks of chocolate on his face, Alfie looked…shifty. “You’ve, err, you’ve found ma draw then. Look I was gonna tell you, but it just tastes so good n’-”

“Sorry, I’ve found your what?” asked Tommy. “Have you been hiding chocolate in our house?”.

“Hmm, mm” Alfie hummed to himself for a moment, realising his stash hadn’t in fact been subjected to one of Tommy’s household purges. Yet. “Just a draw” he said sheepishly. “It was on special offer see, and it would be stupid not t’ invest, ya know? I’m a business man after all, n’ you’ve got to take these opportuni-”. Tommy cut him off with a kiss. Alfie could have a whole bloody room full of chocolate if he forgave Tommy for today.

“So if you weren’t sneakin’ off with my chocolate” said Alfie conspiratorially, as Tommy rolled his eyes, “why’ve ya got stuff all over you? Yer hair’s all” he made circular gestures with his hands, “fluffy”. Despite Tommy’s silence, Alfie soon made the connection between his red face and the firmly shut kitchen door, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Tommy Shelby, ‘ave you been cooking?”.

“Cooking is one word for it” he muttered, grimacing slightly. Alfie didn’t hear him, too busy lifting Tommy off his lap and hurrying towards the door. Tommy almost tripped over in his haste to grab him, managing to catch Alfie around the waist and pull him to a stop.

“Did you make dinner?” he said, practically jumping up and down with excitement. He looked like Cyril when he found that six-foot branch in the forest.

“Yes” Tommy admitted grudgingly, edging sideways to block Alfie’s path to the door. He couldn’t bear to tell him. 

“Can I see?” said Alfie eagerly, shuffling them towards the door.

“No” said Tommy, the word coming out harsher than he’d intended. Alfie stopped, slightly taken aback.

“Why?”.

“Because…” _I’m useless. You’ll hate it. I failed._ “It’s not…I haven’t…” he trailed off.

“Jus’ show me love, you dun’t have to be nervous” said Alfie, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Though it is kinda sweet you gettin’ all worked up over me present, isn’t it”.

“It is not _sweet_ ” Tommy insisted, extracting himself from Alfie’s arms and standing firmly in front of the kitchen door.

“Please? For me?” Alfie begged, turning his best puppy eyes on Tommy. It was unfair really, Tommy thought, as the door swung open. He couldn’t resist those eyes.

“I couldn’t- it’s not very-” Tommy sighed, “I tried”. His gaze fell on his pathetic attempt to lay the table, the rose petals already crumpling. If there was ever a time to just…crawl out of the window and find a corner of the stables to curl up in, it was now.

On the contrary, Alfie’s mouth fell open as he entered the kitchen. The curtains were drawn, but several candles filled the room with a warm glow. Petals covered the table, the work surface filled with plates of food, and Alfie felt a lump rise in his throat. Tommy hovered beside him nervously, and Alfie pressed kiss after kiss into his messy hair.

“Yer so silly, you know that?”. Tommy gave him a small smile.

“Don’t speak too soon. You haven’t had any yet”.

“Plate me up then chef” Alfie grinned, taking his place at the table and appreciating the sight of his boyfriend moving about the kitchen. It looked good on him. Tommy lifted the cloche from one of the dishes, waving a tea towel around to reduce the steam. He wavered in the middle of the room, inspecting the plate carefully.

“C’mere love”.

“You can’t eat this”.

“Come here”.

“I’m just going to-” he took a step towards the bin.

“Tommy, come here” said Alfie firmly. Sometimes you just had to take charge of a situation. What kind of a boyfriend would he be if he let Tommy throw away all his hard work? Tommy stood beside him, and Alfie gave his elbow a comforting squeeze. “You _cooked_ for me” he said, and there was so much gratitude in his voice that Tommy just stopped for a moment. Let his grip slacken and Alfie pull the plate away. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see Alfie’s face change the moment he realised it was all-

“I love it” said Alfie, beaming up at him. Tommy scoffed, throwing his towel down and trying to take the plate away. “No no no” he cried, grabbing it. “It’s mine!”.

“Alfie, it’s awful” protested Tommy, trying to pull the plate away without any of its disgusting contents slopping onto the floor. Cyril would lap it up without even knowing what disaster might befall him if he ate it.

“You’re taking away my fuckin’ anniversary meal” whined Alfie. He sounded like a child, and Tommy let go with a huff, but was unable to suppress his grin when a bit of sauce splashed onto Alfie’s shirt.

“Serves you right”.

“I dun’t care ‘bout me bloody shirt” said Alfie, rolling up his sleeves. “I wanna taste this food my love’s spent all day makin’ me”. Grabbing his fork, he speared some meat first, making sure to coat it with sauce before eating. Tommy actually winced as he swallowed.

“No, stop Alfie. You’re gonna get food poisoning”. Alfie waved him away.

“I want to _eat it_ ”.

“You’ve had a mouthful!”

“I want more!”.

“You can’t tell me you’re enjoying this?!”.

“Course I am, love. I know how much you hate cookin’. And food in general, really. An you’ve spent hours makin’ me a delicious meal, on the anniversary of the day our eyes locked n’ we-”

“Okay, okay, fine” said Tommy, raising his hands. There was no time for an Alfie ramble now, not when the food would probably go cold in about five minutes and taste even worse. There was still a little bit of steam, though that could be…fumes. No, no, it was definitely steam.

He poked at his own plate, salvaging a corner of unburnt potato and cautiously nibbling at a bit of chicken. It helped that it was the first thing he’d eaten since breakfast. Alfie talked, rambled about their years together and how much he was enjoying the food, and Tommy felt the tension drain from his shoulders. Even if Alfie was exaggerating, which he undoubtedly was, it was nice to hear. And despite the fact that Tommy almost had a heart attack when Alfie offered Cyril a bite of chicken, the meal otherwise went okay. Before he knew it, Tommy was clearing away the plates.

“There’s dessert too?” asked Alfie hopefully. Tommy nodded reluctantly, taking the covered dish from the work surface. He pulled back the cover a fraction, and stopped to peer inside before Alfie confiscated the container, setting it on the table.

“Ah, a mousse! That explains the chocolate ey?” said Alfie as he pulled off the cover.

“It’s a-”. Tommy stopped, gazing at the cake in mild alarm. It did indeed look like a mousse. His icing had been absorbed into a messy looking chocolate whirlpool. He’d only left it alone for an hour, how could this have happened? Food was fickle he thought to himself, dubiously digging a spoon into the mixture. It seemed to be more solid the further down he went, and he avoided Alfie’s eyes as half cake, half mousse, all disaster landed on his plate. On the plus side, his icing failure was lost forever. Tommy could imagine the teasing.

“Hmm?”.

“Never mind”.

\--

Tommy had hardly reached for the scrubbing brush before Alfie was spinning him around, leading him towards the door.

“Where are we going?” he asked reluctantly. He’d just like to get the washing done, and then curl up in a nice dark place somewhere. With no sauce or chickens or tablespoons anywhere in sight.

 “I’ve got a surprise for you” Alfie grinned.

“What?”.

“You didn’t think I forgot about your present, did ya?”. Quite honestly, Tommy hadn’t even thought about it. After establishing Alfie wasn’t making him a dinner, the thought had completely vanished from his mind.

“Put yer cap on, it’s chilly” said Alfie, undeterred by Tommy’s nonplussed expression and throwing a distinctly non-razor bladed cap at in his direction. There wasn’t so much of a need for those anymore. Things were settling down. It was indeed chilly outside, when they eventually got there. Alfie had spotted the cut on his thumb, and marched him upstairs to wrap a totally unnecessary bandage around it. Tommy pretended to hate it – “Alfie, it stopped bleeding _hours_ ago” – but honestly, he needed Alfie to dote on him right now. Five years had gone by, Tommy proving time and time again that he was useless, fearing with each anniversary that Alfie would realise he wasn’t good enough. Would give up on him. But he seemed obstinately blind to it all, covering Tommy’s eyes with his gloved hands as they stepped outside.

“Alfie, I’m going to trip” he said, wobbling slightly as they made their way onto the grass.

“No you ain’t, I’ve got ya”. He didn’t guide Tommy towards the stables straight away, he’d know, and Alfie wanted it to be a surprise, so they went on a little trip around the garden. Tommy figured this out rather quickly; Alfie leading him ten paces in one direction then doing a U-turn rather gave it away, but he indulged him. It was the least he could do. Just as his ears were beginning to redden with cold, the familiar smell of the stables greeted him, and Alfie led him to a stop.

“Right ‘ere we are, you ready love?”. Tommy nodded, opening his eyes when Alfie moved his hands away. Standing in front of the usually vacant pen at the end of the stables, Tommy didn’t notice anything different at first. Had Alfie cleaned the windows? Had he organised the hay bales? Then he saw something fluffy, and white, peeking over the gate. An ear. He moved closer curiously. Had Alfie got him a foal?

Inside the pen was a small, fluffy maned white horse. She had tiny legs, and was covered by the red blanket Alfie had made a few winters ago. She looked almost comical, compared to the great race horses in the neighbouring stalls, and Tommy couldn’t help the small noise that escaped his lips at how sweet she looked.

“Hey girl” he said, holding out his hand. The horse came closer, peering up at him with those big eyes and sniffing hopefully. An apple appeared in Tommy’s palm, and he glanced back at Alfie, who was staring innocently up at the hay loft. He opened the pen and stepped inside, the horse eagerly nosing at his hand.

“There we go” he said gently, stroking down her neck as she munched away.

“Not really a ridin’ horse, but she’s a sweetie. Even let me stroke her, n’ ya know most horses can’t stand me” babbled Alfie.

“It’s just cause you’re nervous” said Tommy, quietly. “They can sense it”.

“Is she okay?” Alfie asked, scratching at the back of his head. Tommy turned, catching the insecurity. “I was thinkin’, you’ve got all these race horses, you know, and it might be nice to ‘ave one just for you. To relax with. Without any of that training stuff”. Tommy straightened up, leaning over the gate and reaching out to Alfie. He came, Tommy greeting him with a kiss.

“She’s perfect. Thank you”.

“The man said she likes bein’ brushed. I know it all gets too much sometimes, even out here” he gestured to the countryside surrounding them. He took Tommy’s hand, kissing the bandage. “So…jus someone to ‘ave a cuddle with. Without any expectations, you know? Don’t want her replacing me, mind” he joked. Tommy shook his head, very much enjoying Alfie’s rambling about gathering Tommy close on his chest. “Now then, what ridiculous name are you gonna call her? Cause I’m telling you now I ain’t running around the pasture yelling for Spectacular Albatross or Flying Desmond to come in for the night”. Tommy laughed, his eyes crinkling up. Alfie pulled him close. “It’s bad enough as it is. What must the bloody neighbours think of me, ey?”.

“We don’t have any neighbours”.

“Driven them all off, haven’t I, with those names”.

“What would you suggest?” asked Tommy. Alfie thought for a moment, tentatively reaching over the pen and patting the horse’s head. She was still crunching on the last of the apple, shuffling her little feet around in the hay happily.

“How’s Aviva?” he asked. “Means spring. N’ I can picture her in the fields like, when the flowers are growing”. Tommy smiled.

“Aviva it is”.

\--

The sun was setting fast now, the horizon a beautiful misty orange. They’d stayed out in the stables for a while, Tommy whispering nonsense to his horse, and Cyril running about and rolling over in the grass. The whole scene made Alfie’s heart melt a little. A lot.

Five years of Tommy. If he wasn’t just the luckiest man on G-d’s good earth.

The chill eventually persuaded Tommy to leave Aviva and come inside; although not before giving her a brush down and an extra blanket. And petting all the other horses.

“I don’t want them to feel left out” he protested, over Alfie’s teasing. Cyril weaved around their legs as they kissed in the hallway, jackets thrown over the bannisters. Alfie distracted him with a treat, and Cyril took it to his basket, tail wagging slowly in exhaustion.  

“You wanna…” Tommy asked suggestively, nodding up towards the bedroom.

“Jus’ gonna go to the bathroom love, meet you in there” said Alfie, shooting him an exaggerated wink and laughing at Tommy’s raised eyebrow before heading to the bathroom. He leant on the closed door heavily, waiting an appropriate amount of time before running the tap, scooping the water up with his hands and desperately drinking it down. He wasn’t sure how much garlic Tommy had put in that sauce, but he had a feeling he’d be tasting it for weeks. His kisses must be _awful_.

But he supposed Tommy couldn’t tell: he’d eaten it too. Water dripped down his chin onto his shirt, but Alfie only gulped more. After an hour of resisting the urge to down the water jug in one, it was so good to wash some of the flavour away. He’d thought the…mousse cake would help with that, but if anything it seemed to intensify it. Had Tommy put garlic in there too?!

His eyes fell upon his toothbrush, and he glanced at the door nervously. He usually didn’t brush them until later; Tommy might realise. The thought of hurting him like that, however unintentionally, made Alfie feel terrible. But on the other hand, he wasn’t certain the potato wouldn’t just attach itself permanently to his teeth unless he scrubbed it off.

He thought he could get away with shoving some of the chicken to the edges of his plate, but he saw the worried glances Tommy was shooting him. Watching his plate, his reactions. So he ate it all, the residual texture making him shudder. There was nothing for it, he thought, grabbing his toothbrush. If he was concentrating on anything other than making Tommy’s eyes roll back in pleasure tonight, well, that would be a sacrilegious offence wouldn’t it?

\--

Tommy was sat cross legged on the bed, wearing Alfie’s sleeping shirt, and nothing else by the looks of things.

“I knew you hated it” he said, sadly.

“Tommy, no” said Alfie, sitting beside him.

“It’s okay, Alfie. I know it was terrible. I should’ve just got you some fucking cufflinks or something”.

“Now when ‘ave you ever known me to bother with them, ey?”

“Something else then. An actual present, like you got me”.

“I love that you made me something, darlin’. So nice of you t’ put yerself through that for me”.

“Don’t joke” said Tommy, pouting. “I heard you”.

“I mean it” said Alfie, scooting towards him on the bed, and wrapping his legs around Tommy. He huffed a laugh. “Thank you for doin’ that for me. I know how hard cookin’ can be, yeah? And I know I go on about it a lot, which is annoying, but it makes me so ‘appy that you made me something. And the little candles n’ petals, so sweet. Jus’ love you so much, you silly thing”. Alfie pressed kisses into his hair.

“I love you too” Tommy mumbled, freeing his arms from Alfie’s strange leg hold and wrapping them around him in return.

“I thought we were gettin’ there, ey? You believing me when I say things like that”.

“I do” said Tommy quickly, “I just…it didn’t go the way I wanted it to”.

“And that’s okay” said Alfie. “Not everything does. But I loved it all the same”.

“But…it didn’t taste nice”.

“I love that _you_ made it for me. That’s what makes it special, ya know? I could ‘ave had one of them fancy posh meals from some restaurant, and it wouldn’t mean nothing compared to my Tommy workin’ all day to make me something, ey?”. He squeezed Tommy’s shoulders. “You could prob’ly give me a load of hay n’ sugar cubes and I’d eat it. Cyril would too”. Tommy smiled.

“He was helping me today, or trying to. In his own way”.

“Was he? That’s ma boy- ah, ow, fuckin’ hell” Alfie cried, disentangling himself from Tommy and clutching at his foot. “Cramp, cramp”. He hobbled over to the window, bracing himself on the sill as he rubbed at his toes, Tommy’s laughter in the background making him grin despite his discomfort. It settled down eventually, and Tommy joined him, resting his head on Alfie’s shoulder, hair ticking his cheek.

“I love your hair like this, ya know”.

“Don’t say a word”.

“I already-”

“Not a word”. The sun had set now, and the stars twinkled at them faintly through the mist. “It was awful, wasn’t it?” said Tommy, his shoulders shaking as he laughed. Alfie kissed his temple.

“I still loved it”.

“I know”.

“You happy?” asked Alfie after a while, resting his head on Tommy’s and looking into the garden beyond. Their garden.

“Very” he replied, the warmth of truly meaning it leaving him with a warm glow. “Happy fifth anniversary”.

“To many more”.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I'd love to know what you think! <3 
> 
> Come say hi/yell at me on tumblr - @bluerighthand, WIPs should be updated in February xx


End file.
